o 
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THE   HAPPY  BRIDE 


THE   HAPPY   BRIDE 


BY 


F.   TENNYSON  JESSE 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Milky  Way,  Secret  Bread 
Beggars  on  Horseback 


NEW  ^Sir  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE   HAPPY   BRIDE 


BY 


F.   TENNYSON   JESSE 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Milky  Way,  Secret  Bread 
Beggars  on  Horseback 


NEW  XBJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

B. 

MIHI     DOLORES     TUI 
TIBI     GAUDIA     MEA 


436027 


CONTENTS 


1.  THE  HAPPY  BEIDE 

2.  ST  LUDGVAN'S  WELL 

3.  THREE  WISHES 

4.  CORNISH  CRADLE  SONG 

5.  I,  NOW  AN  OLD  WOMAN  GROWN 

6.  WAKEFUL  NIGHT 

7.  THE  FORBIDDEN  VISION 

8.  THE  SUN  NEVER  SHINES  ON  THE  PERJURED 

9.  THE  DROLL-TELLER 

10.  JENNIFER,  JENNIFER 

n 

11.  TOWERS  OF  HEALING 

12.  DROWNED  CITIES 

13.  A  LITTLE  DIRGE  FOR  ANY  SOUL 

14.  A  LITTLE  CAROL  FOR  MOTHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

15.  THE  VOICES  OF  THE  PASSING  YEARS 

16.  YOUTH  RENASCENT 

17.  WHERE  BEAUTY  STAYS  HER  FOOT 

in 

18.  ET  IN  ARCADIA  EGO 

19.  WHERE  MY  DEAD  YOUTH  LIES  DREAMING 

20.  TO  THE  FORBIDDEN  LOVER 

21.  MY  SENSES  AND  I 

22.  LOVER'S  CRY 

IV 

23.  THE  WEDDING  IN  THE  WOOD 

24.  THE  SPARROW  AND  THE  MOTOR-BUS 


I 


THE   HAPPY   BRIDE  [1] 


(In  Cornwall,  when  an  unmarried  girl  dies,  she  is  borne  through 
the  streets  followed  by  her  girl  friends  dressed  in  white  and 
tinging  a  hymn  of  which  the  refrain  is  "  O  Happy  Bride.") 


ALONG  the  lane  where  I  passed  the  faded  sorrel  shows 

rusty, 
Naked   the    wind-wilted    thorns    crouch    by    the    granite 

boulders ; 
On  the  day  that  I  buried  you,  lass,  the  June  sun  was 

lusty, 
Made   the   new-varnished    coffin   gleam   upon    the    black 

shoulders. 
Lie  you  warmly,  my  lass,  with  your  head  on  your  lonely 

pillow, 
You  that  I  was  to  wed  when  the  pilchard  huer's  first 

"Heva!" 
Told  that  the  harvest  of  fishers  made  dark  the  long  rippled 

billow, 
You  who'll  wed  never? 


Dead  before  you  were  mine  I   As  they  jolted  you  up  the  steep 

street 
Meaning  wedded  to  Heaven,  they  hymned  you  as  "  Oh 

Happy  Bride  "... 
Bridal  shift  was  not  sewn  nor  the  bridal  wreath  twisted,  my 

sweet, 
Until  you  had  died. 

Lass,  I  cannot  forget  you — the  one  soft  curl  in  the  hollow 
Dimpling  the  nape  of  your  neck;  the  way  that  the  curve  of 

pink  ear 
Was  half -hid  by  your  hair  when  you  turned  to  see  if  I'd 

follow, 
Then  the  smile  that  narrowed  your  lids  when  you  found  I 

was  near  .   .   . 
But — there's  Nan  to  the  mill  who  would  have  me,  come  fair 

days  come  wet; 

Must  I  get  me  no  sons  for  the  sake  of  my  pledges  to  you? 
When  my  hands  are  too  feeble  for  drawing  and  tucking  the 

net, 
Then  what  shall  I  do? 


When  the  tiller  will  wrench  at  my  grip  and  send  the  boom 

swinging 

And  the  white  eye  of  dawn  looks  vainly  to  find  me  afloat, 
Then  I'll  want  of  my  own  flesh  and  blood  to  set  the  sails 

winging 
In  my  own  boat. 

"  Lad  you  need  have  no  fear  that  my  dead  hand  will  pluck 

at  the  sheet, 

Sleep  without  recking  of  me  and  get  you  children  about  you; 
Thicker  than  gulls  at  a  haul  come  flocking  the  troubles  you'll 

meet, 
For  sons  grown  to  manhood  will  quarrel  and  daughters  when 

fair  will  flout  you." 
What  better  folk  have  you  here,  my  lass,  grass  betwixt  you 

and  the  bay, 
With  the  church  tower  pricking  one  ear  across    to  the 

morn? 
"  Children  I  would  have  brought  to  you;  babes  of  the  spirit 

are  they 
Who  never  are  born." 


May  I  take  Nan  and  wed  with  her,  never  think  her  your 

debtor, 
Nor  see  her  cheek  pale  from  the  envious  breath  of  the 

dead? 
"  Have  her  and  be  glad,  for  the  Happy  Bride  sleeps  with  a 

better, 
Nan  you  may  wed. 

Tis  the  man  that  I  thought  you  lies  closer  to  me  than  a 

wraith, 
Dreaming  with  him  and  his  babes  I'll  covet  no  live  woman's 

morrow. 
Take  my  wish — that  till  women  forget  or  till  men  can  keep 

faith, 
You  may  miss  sorrow." 


[2]  ST   LUDGVAN'S   WELL 


(Legend  says  that  the  water  of  St  Ludgvan's  Well,  in  Corn- 
wall, has  power  to  protect  from  the  hangman's  rope  all  children 
baptised  with  it.) 


CLEAE  as  drops  of  blood  the  currants  gleam  on  the  bushes, 
Red  of  poppy  and  sanf oin  winks  from  the  ripening  grass, 
All  the  world  is  stained  wine-red  by  the  setting  sun — 
Redder  than  any  of  these  is  the  blood  of  the  man  I  have  killed. 

The  bell 
Of  slow-moving  cow  down-along  in  the  lane,  sounds  like 

A  knell. 

Let  me  in,  my  lass,  for  fast  the  evening  is  falling; 
To  me  the  day  and  the  night  will  soon  alike  be  grey, 
Soon  the  hempen  halter  will  close  about  my  neck — 
Lass,  to-night  let  it  be  your  arms  that  are  clinging  around  it. 

He  fell 
Your  name  in  his  mouth — and  the  mouth  of  you  will  haunt 

me  within 
My  cell. 


Lass,  the  bed  is  of  quicklime  that  all  too  soon  will  enfold  me ; 
Just  to-night  may  your  breast  be  my  more  pitiful  pillow : 
And  since  the  life  is  vain  that  can  leave  no  life  behind  it, 
To  set  a  child  of  mine  facing  the  sun  and  the  winds 

I'll  sell 
My  chance  of  escape — my  body  to  Bodmin  jail,  and  my  soul 

To  hell. 

Then  on  you,  who  are  woman  of  mine,  I'll  lay  a  last  bidding — 
See  the  babe  is  christened  in  water  from  Ludgvan's  spring; 
Never  for  him  will  the  hangman  knot  his  rope  of  hemp, 
Or  you  again  go  in  sorrow  because  of  the  neck  of  a  loved  one. 

The  well 
Of  Ludgvan  has  power ;  and  only  for  me  will  sound  in  a  prison 

The  knell. 


[3]  THREE   WISHES 

IN  the  hedgerows  the  young  oaks  are  crumpled  beneath  the 

grey  blight; 
And  the  patches  of  sorrel  are  like  stains  of  rust  in  the 

corn 
Where  the  long  straws  lie  tangled  and  flat  to  the  face  of  the 

morn; 

In  the  pasture  the  yellow  destruction  of  charlock  shows 

bright. 

Early  may  his  head  grow  grey, 
Sinews  and  brain  come  soon  to  rust; 
Broken  may  he  lie  his  length 
For  breaking  trust. 

In  the  copse  a  young  rabbit,  bewildered,  is  mourning  his 

mate; 
By  her  ear  the  thin  stoat  sank  his  murderous  tooth  in  her 

brain, 

Startled,  fled,  but  left  her  half-paralysed,  circling  in  pain, 
Her  wide  eyes  blurred  by  the  death-film;  struck  down  by 

her  fate. 

Even  thus  may  she  be  felled, 
And  unkempt  her  house  be  left; 
Vainly  will  he  sit  and  call 
From  hearth  bereft. 


In  the  meadow  where  we  used  to  meet  they  have  carried  the 

hay, 
For  the  harvest  of   others   the  guiltless   have   given  the 

price; 
At  the  teeth  of  the  cutter  the  toads  and  the  small  frightened 

mice 
Met  their  doom  in  the  last  square  of  grass,  where  they 

huddled  away. 

But  Tier  babes  that  should  be  mine.  . . 
God  knows  I  cannot  wish  them  itt. 
May  He  from  the  field-things'  fate 
Protect  them  still. 


[4]  CORNISH    CRADLE    SONG 

LET  your  lids  fold,  as  you  lie  on  my  breast, 
The  song  at  your  ear  is  mother's  heart  beating, 

Heavy  round  head 

Soft  is  your  bed, 

And  each  beat  of  my  heart  is  for  you,  my  sweeting, 
My  arms  are  strong  to  cradle  your  rest. 

Down-along  the  dumble-dories *  are  droning, 
Shrill  the  cries  of  the  gulls  come  over  the  bay, 

Hear  the  thin  twitting 

Of  airy-mice  2  flitting, 

Hear  the  wind  that  has  followed  the  sun  all  day 
At  each  black  post  set  the  trapped  wires  moaning. 

From  piskies  I  guard  you,  little  boy-thing, 
They'd  steal  you  and  tuck  you  under  the  turf; 

The  merry-maids 8 

Who  sleek  their  braids 
In  the  shore-flung  crescents  of  curdled  surf, 
Around  you  with  wet  white  arms  would  cling. 


But  till  the  dawn's  eyelid  shall  open  wide, 
And  the  grey-bird 4  scatters  with  thirsty  beak 

Each  dew-filled  grail 

Of  blossom  frail; 

Till  the  joy  of  waking  shall  dimple  your  cheek, 
Safe  as  bird  in  the  nest  shall  you  sleep  by  my  side, 

Son  of  my  heart,  as  you  lie  on  my  breast, 
My  shielding  palms  can  feel  your  heart  beating, 

Heavy  round  head, 

Soft  be  your  bed, 

When  your  mother's  no  longer  your  sweeting, 
And  away  from  me  may  you  still  find  rest. 


1  Cockchafers.  2  Bats. 

3  Mermaids.  *  Thrush. 


[5]     I,  NOW  AN  OLD  WOMAN  GROWN 

I,  NOW  an  old  woman  grown, 

By  the  hearthstone  sit  alone. 

Three  green  graves  from  the  door  I  see, 

One  in  deep  waters  is  hid  from  me. 

They're  graves  of  men  IVe  laid  to  rest 
Who  once  were  babies  at  my  breast; 
He  who  in  deep  waters  lies 
Was  joy  of  my  heart  and  light  of  my  eyes. 

Children's  children  play  on  the  moor, 
Peep  in  bright-eyed  at  my  door; 
But  I,  I  sit  as  one  apart, 
Speaking  only  with  my  heart. 


Not  the  four  brave  sons  I've  lost 
Fill  my  dreaming  mind  the  most, 
But  the  girl-child  that  never  came 
Although  I  call  on  her  by  name. 

She  would  have  been  beside  me  still, 
She'd  never  have  gone  to  mine  or  mill, 
Beneath  her  roof  I  should  have  had  place 
And  seen  my  motherhood  in  her  face. 

Three  green  graves  from  the  door  I  see, 
One  in  deep  waters  is  hid  from  me; 
But  as  by  the  hearth  I  sit  alone 
For  one  who  never  lived  I  moan. 


[6]  WAKEFUL   NIGHT 

THE  night  is  full  of  sounds;  for  from  the  barn 
Comes  melancholy  hooting  of  the  owls; 
The  lonely  barking  of  an  anxious  vixen, 
The  melancholy  barking  of  a  vixen, 
Echoes  up  thinly  from  the  distant  earn. 

The  night  is  full  of  colour;  round  the  moon 

A  burnished  halo  stains  the  sky  with  rust; 

On  moonlit  fields  the  shadows  are  edged  with  light, 

On  burnished  fields  the  dew  refracts  the  light, 

Till  the  prismatic  air  seems  clear  as  noon. 

The  night  is  full  of  movement;  in  the  hedge 
A  hungry  stoat  chases  the  new-weaned  hare; 
A  clumsy  badger  clatters  across  the  road, 
A  hungry  badger  whose  claws  ring  on  the  road, 
And  the  sleek  otter  parts  the  slippery  sedge. 


The  night  is  full  of  waiting;  until  the  morn 
The  glowing  blind  will  show  a  shadow-mother 
Awaiting  day  that  hears  death  for  her  child; 
That  glowing  day  to  others  will  bring  a  child — 
In  the  next  house  a  soul  waits  to  be  born. 


[7]  THE  FORBIDDEN  VISION 

HIDING  his  eyes  at  the  whir  of  wings 
The  lad  on  the  moonlit  earn  crouched  low, 
For  fairy-folk  with  fiddle  and  bow, 
Danced  in  the  tawny  toadstool  rings. 

The  fairy  music  fell  sweet  and  shrill 
Broke  light  as  the  froth  of  white  sea-sud, 
...  It  waked  strange  mischief  in  his  blood, 
A  pagan  thing  that  would  not  be  still. 

First  his  soul  with  that  music  shook, 
Then,  lighter  than  laughter  and  free  as  love 
Yet  soft  as  the  note  of  a  homing  dove, 
It  lured  his  lids  up  for  one  look 

Oh,  sight  of  the  fairy-folk  strikes  blind, 
But  he'd  his  moment  of  seeing  true, 
Ere  darkness,  to  keep  the  splendour  new, 
Locked  all  the  vision  in  his  mind! 


THE  SUN  NEVER  SHINES  ON  [8] 

THE   PERJURED 


THE  grey  gull  swoops  from  his  grey  rock  home 
With  never  a  silver  gleam  on  his  wings, 
The  grey  sea  breaks  into  paler  foam  .  .  . 
I  am  sick  to  death  of  these  cold  grey  things. 

There's  a  chill  to  me  in  the  brightest  June, 
The  very  air  is  grey  as  the  sea, 
I  crawl  stone-cold  in  the  warmth  of  the  noon, 
And  never  a  shadow  is  cast  by  me. 

Oh,  when  I  swore  to  the  lie  that  saved 
Had  I  but  known  how  sweet  is  the  sun, 
Years  of  grey  prison-walls  I  would  have  braved 
Through  to  the  gold  again  I  should  have  won. 


[9]  THE  DROLL-TELLER 

(In  ancient  Cornwall  there  used  to  be  men  called  "  Droll- 
tellers  "  who  wandered  the  country-side  telling  the  old  stories 
or  "  Drolls  "  in  return  for  bed  and  board.) 

TAWNY,  supple  and  lank,  and  lean  in  the  flank, 

With  his  face  netted  over  with  carven  wrinkles, 

'Twould  have  puzzled  you  well  to  have  guessed  his  years, 

From  his  carven  lids  his  eyes  shone  bright, 

He'd  the  laugh  of  a  child,  hut  a  hint  of  tears 

Thrummed  through  his  voice  like  a  string  from  his  fiddle. 

— No  mere  teller  of  drolls,  but  a  master  of  souls. 

All  the  Duchy  he  trod  till  he  knew  each  clod; 

Where  the  red  clay  stains  the  sea  so  ruddy 

That  the  foam  breaks  in  roses  along  the  strand, 

Where  the  white  clay  cups  the  milken  pools 

Or  the  wind  drifts  high  the  hills  of  sand. 

But  the  folk  had  all  of  them  one  thing  in  common — 

That  aghast  they  withdrew  from  anything  new. 


So,  in  due  reward  for  his  bed  and  his  board 
He  told  them  old  tales  of  piskies  and  buccas, 
How  across  the  waste  the  Wish-Hound  wails 
Hard  on  the  heels  of  sin-ridden  Tregeagle, 
How  Pengerswick's  wife  is  covered  with  scales 
Snake-like,  from  too  much  brewing  of  hell-broth  .  .  . 
And  he  snared  them  like  birds  in  the  web  of  his  words, 

Yet  on  news  they  fell  prone  as  dogs  on  a  bone; 

When  some  noted  sinner  had  been  converted, 

Or  some  farmer's  cow  had  slipped  her  calf, 

Or  a  maid  they  knew  of  had  "  met  with  misfortune." 

Then  indeed  he  was  sure  of  raising  a  laugh, 

They  almost  forgot  he  was  but  a  foreigner, 

And  forgave  him  the  sin  of  having  no  kin. 


But  they  thought  him  a  wizard  when  he  foretold  the  Lizard 
Would  send  a  bright  shaft  wheeling  over  the  sky, 
And  a  bell  on  the  Runnell  Stone  heave  on  the  tide 
And  the  Wolf  wink  a  red  eye  across  to  the  Bishop. 
Women  snatched  up  their  babes  and  men  drew  aside, 
Some  deemed  him  a  changeling,  some  hinted  at  worse — 
Of  no  Christian  breed,  they  all  were  agreed. 

One  day,  when  inspired  and  with  prophecy  fired, 
Fast  the  living  words  blew  from  his  lips  like  flames; 
And  he  told  how  the  Duchy  would  fettered  lie 
Under  ribbons  of  steel,  and  enmeshed  in  wires 
Back  and  forth  on  whose  web  would  messages  fly 
Like  a  shuttle;  while  from  Poldhu  out  to  sea 
On  the  naked  air  would  the  messages  fare. 


Then  they  arose  and  they  drove  him  with  blows, 

But  once  out  of  church-town  he  turned  and  he  faced  them, 

Tucked  his  pointed  chin  on  his  fiddle  and  played  .  .  . 

Played — and  hands  grew  lax  and  feet  were  still, 

Only  souls  fell  a-quivering  and  felt  afraid 

Of  his  terrible  eyes  both  sad  and  mocking, 

Then  he  dropped  his  fiddle  and  spake  his  last  riddle. 

"  Who  I  am  ye  would  know?    It  ever  was  so, 

When  you  stoned  prophets  and  flouted  the  Oracles. 

'Tis  enough  for  you  that  alone  I  trudge 

One  of  the  lost  and  wayfaring  brothers 

Who've  a  clearness  of  vision  you  cannot  but  grudge, 

The  greatest  of  Vagabonds  you  asked  the  same  question 

When  He  hung  on  a  Cross  to  save  the  world's  loss. 


"  See  a  god  and  ye  die,  and  although  in  a  cry 

I  was  whirled  from  my  throne  at  the  birth  of  a  greater, 

Like  Him  I  can  spare  you  and  keep  myself  hidden  ..." 

— He  stamped  on  the  earth,  which  opened  and  swallowed  him. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  like  children  chidden, 

But  on  finding  the  print  of  a  hoof  in  the  sod 

They  no  longer  doubted  'twas  the  Devil  they'd  flouted. 


[10]  JENNIFER,   JENNIFER 

DOWN  in  the  village  they  painted  after  Jennifer 
Up  in  the  lonely  ways  hid  from  her  approach; 
Feared  her  glances  grey  and  empty  as  the  dawn. 

She  was  whisht 

And  fairy-kiss't; 

Had  given  her  virginity  amid  the  reddened  heather 
To  a  fairy-lover,  and  had  garnered  elfin  spawn. 
Curious,  had  looked  upon  and  lost  her  fairy-lover  .  .  . 

Jennifer,  Jennifer! 

So  the  good  wives  by  the  cradle  would  hastily  cover 
Their  babes'  downy  heads  from  the  danger  of  her  look, 
Or  snatch  them  the  closer  in  a  curving  arm 

Lest  changeling  brood 

Puling  in  mood, 

Born  of  elf -ridden  Jennifer  up  amid  the  bracken 
Be  tucked  beneath  the  coverlet  to  wreak  their  harm; 
While  she  stole  the  christened  babes  away  in  her  kirtle 

Cunningly,  cunningly. 


And  full  many  a  maiden,  when  the  bush  of  glossy  myrtle 
Flowered  by  the  cottage  door  and  told  she  would  wed, 
Hidden  in  the  attic  sewed  her  bridal  shift 

Lest  Jennifer 

Should  glance  at  her, 

And  the  harmless  linen  carry  ill-luck  to  her  body 
And  sorrow  to  her  husband  be  all  her  gift. 
Poor  Jennifer,  heedless,  would  stare  up  at  the  attic 

Wondering,  wondering. 

But  many  of  the  old  folk,  though  crippled  and  rheumatic 
Hobbled  to  the  door  if  she  came  down  the  street; 
For  grown  too  old  for  love  is  too  old  for  fear; 

And  her  wild  face 

Was  touched  by  grace 

Born  of  lost  hope  and  love,  of  half -forgotten  glory — 
Made  them  remember  that  to  them  had  love  been  dear. 
For  Time  always  gives  to  dead  youth  a  fairy  lover, 

Glamour-seen,  glamour-seen. 


n 


[11]  TOWERS    OF    HEALING 

(SAN  GIMIGNANO,,  April.) 

CITY  of  quiet  dusk  and  chill,  sweet  morn, 
Wind-swept  and  clean  from  base  to  cresting  roof; 
Piercing  the  sky's  blue  bubble,  serene,  aloof, 
Your  very  towers  bring  peace  to  minds  forlorn. 
Here,  where  Saint  Fina  to  her  rest  was  borne, 
Scared  nymph-hood  still  can  flee  the  satyr's  hoof; 
Blown  straight  are  sorrow's  tangled  warp  and  woof, 
And  like  brave  pennants  by  the  soul  are  worn. 

No  more  do  angels  hover  at  the  towers 
Like  bees  round  lilies,  about  their  tucked-in  feet 
Their  fluttered  gowns  blown  crisp  against  the  sky: 
But  springing  from  sheer  walls,  the  gilly-flowers 
Seem  seraph  flames  above  each  shadowed  street, 
Small  burning  bushes  to  show  that  God  is  nigh. 


DROWNED    CITIES  [12] 

BELOW  the  green,  slow-heaving  clarity 
Of  shrouding  waters,  lies  lost  Lyonesse, 
Kept  clean,  inviolate  from  all  distress, 
As  in  a  bubble  sphere  of  faery. 
Is  she  still  gay  with  errant  minstrelsy, 
Shrilled  to  where  some  lover  and  his  mistress 
Grown  webbed  and  silver-fmned,  keep  joyousness 
Bright  in  this  City  of  Serenity? 

Or,  where  the  arras  waved,  does  the  brown  weed 
Sway  in  the  languid  breath  of  underseas, 
Down  empty  streets,  dim  as  forgotten  years? 
Lost  Lyonesse!    No  deeper  drowned  indeed 
Than  Cities  of  Illusion,  whose  gilt  keys 
Lie  rusting  in  the  soul's  awakened  tears. 


[13]     A  LITTLE  DIRGE    FOR  ANY  SOUL 

SCATTER  sad-leaved  cypress  here, 
Hope  lies  rigid  on  this  bier. 
Bring  the  berries  of  the  yew, 
All  of  bitterness  is  due 
When  the  joy  of  life  is  fled 
Ere  the  body's  life  be  sped. 
He  who  goes  with  deadened  heart 
Is  set  from  living  men  apart. 

But  where  a  body  quiet  lies 

With  the  death-coins  on  its  eyes, 

Shed  no  tear  and  make  no  moan 

Body's  end  is  there  alone, 

And  the  unloosed  soul  hath  breath 

With  its  weary  master's  death. 

. . .  Death  in  life's  a  heavy  thing — 

Life  through  death  doth  freedom  bring. 


[14]  A  LITTLE  CAROL 

FOR   MOTHERS    AND    CHILDREN 


ABOUT  her  Babe  does  Mary 
Tuck  in  the  yellow  straw, 
And  warmed  by  cattle's  breath 
He  smiles  upon  His  mother, 
Nor  heeds  yet  any  other. 
In  that  little  death 
When  apart  your  children  draw, 
Mothers,  call  on  Mary. 

And  little  children,  Jesus, 
'Twixt  dawn  and  candlelight 
Can  easy  find  life  tragic  .  . . 
For  just  a  broken  toy 
May  darken  all  their  joy, 
And  the  morning's  magic 
Be  spoiled  by  the  night. 
Play  with  the  children,  Jesus! 


Praise  the  Babe  of  Grief! 
No  longer  joy  is  vaunted, 
Haloed  now  is  sadness. 
Sorrow  with  braided  lock, 
Want  in  broidered  frock, 
Preen  themselves  for  gladness. 
You  can  go  undaunted 
For  god-like  now  is  grief. 


[15]  THE  VOICES  OF  THE  PASSING  YEARS 

YOUTH: 

Come,  Love,  come,  Love, 

I  am  waiting  a-tip-toe. 

Come  to-morrow  or  the  next  day, 

Or  even  on  the  day  after. 

There  can  be  nothing  further, 

That  must  be  the  outermost  edge! 

Come,  Love,  come,  Love, 

Gild  to-morrow  and  the  two  days  after; 

Come,  Love,  here  is  youth  so  bright — 

I  am  young  for  your  delight. 

MATURITY: 

Come  back,  Love,  come  back,  Love, 
Where  did  you  slip  past  me? 
Yesterday  or  the  day  before, 
Or  even  on  the  day  earlier? 
Before  I  must  have  been  too  young, 
I  could  not  even  have  guessed  at  you  . . . 
Come  back,  Love,  come  back,  Love! 
Oh,  where  and  how  did  I  miss  you? 
Come  back,  Love,  I  yet  am  warm, 
Soon  I  shall  be  too  old  for  harm. 


MIDDLE  AGE: 
Alas,  Love,  alas  Love, 
I  have  never  met  you. 
Always  I  have  looked  for  you, 
Each  day  until  the  day  after. 
Sudden  I  awakened,  Love, 
And  found  you  had  slipped  by  me  . . . 
Alas,  Love,  alas,  Love, 
All  my  time  was  wasted  for  you. 
Alas,  Time,  what  bear  ye 
That  I  have  not  wasted  yearly? 

OLD  AGE: 

Sweet  Love,  sweet  Life, 
With  you  both  I've  met  .  .  . 
Ever  did  I  look  for  Love 
Wilful  turned  my  eyes  from  Life, 
Of  a  sudden  Time  awaked  me, 
Showed  that  Love  and  Life  are  one. 
All  love  of  earth  and  sun  and  beast 
Time  has  shewn  me  make  Life's  feast. 


[16]  YOUTH   RENASCENT 

UP  the  highway,  young  blood  singing, 
Chase  the  rim  around  the  world, 
Feathered  heels  of  youth  are  winging 
— All  too  soon  are  pinions  furled. 

Youth  is  gold  in  morning  light, 
Flashes  back  from  leaf  and  rill, 
Gleams  in  all  there  is  that's  bright, 
Flies  from  everything  that's  still. 

Hearts  and  heads  and  heels  of  feather- 
These  are  gifts  that  will  not  stay; 
They  triumph  over  any  weather 
But  Time  will  bear  them  all  away. 


Some  say  that  on  another  earth, 
Or  haply  once  again  on  this, 
Again  as  babes  we  come  to  birth, 
So  once  more  taste  our  youthful  bliss. 

If  it's  so,  since  age  we  must, 

In  nerve  and  sinew,  heart  and  brain, 

Let  us,  ere  we  fall  on  rust, 

Kill  ourselves,  to  live  again! 


[17]  WHERE  BEAUTY  STAYS  HER  FOOT 

BEAUTY  stings  the  soul  to  a  sense  of  something  lacking — 
Vague  desires  that  set  this  way  and  that,  for  ever  racking 
Backwards  and  forwards ;  always  hungry,  groping  and  dumb. 
If  over  a  sudden  hill-crest  a  stretch  of  cloud-chequered  land 
Lie  wide  to  the  wanderer's  gaze ;  he,  from  his  high-thrust  rock 
Sees  it  sun-dappled,  sees  the  wind-blown  columns  of  showers 
And  pearly  patches  of  water;  sees  hills  with  a  bloom  like  a 

plum 

Interf  old  at  the  rim  of  the  world  . .  .  And,  at  the  first  shock 
Of  its  infinite  fairness,  still  and  straight  his  body  will  stand 
While  his  soul  leaps  a-tip-toe,  and,  yearning  for  unknown 

powers, 

Tugs  at  the  cord  of  life  with  a  beating  of  futile  wings- 
Expanding  with  what  it  knows  not,  urgent  for  further  things. 


In  the  keen  joy  of  reading  a  just  and  debonair  phrase, 

Of  seeing  in  paint  or  in  stone  how  beauty  is  snared  in  her 

ways, 

When  the  subtle  smell  of  sun-warmed  or  rain-fragrant  earth 
Makes  him  close  eyes  and  ears  so  that  his  senses  may  narrow 
And  fuse  in  the  deep-drawn  breath ;  or  music  wakes  and  dies, 
Urging  and  soothing  and  fretting;  then  again  his  soul  is  set 

aching 
For  beauty  beyond  that  beauty,  wider  than  sorrow  or  mirth. . . 

Some  gold  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow,  some  treasure  of  skies 
Stretching  too  far  for  the  mind's  most  cunning-plumed 

arrow. 

The  soul  pursues  it  in  sleep,  but  is  for  ever  awaking 
Just  as  its  melody,  its  fragrance  and  bright-coloured  gleam, 
Like  moths  in  a  net,  seem  about  to  be  caught  in  the  web  of 

a  dream. 


But,  when  for  a  long-poised  moment  that  seems  to  be  holding 

its  breath 

Snatching  all  that  it  can  of  life  ere  Time  lets  it  fall  into  death, 
When  the  wish  of  a  man  and  a  woman  has  urged  each  to  each 
And  in  hard  silent  pressure  of  passion  mouth  stays  against 

mouth, 

Then  it  seems  that  the  void  in  creation  at  last  may  be  filled, 
Beauty  cries  out  aloud  "  This  for  itself  was  made  fair  .  .  . 
For  itself!    For  itself!     For  itself! "    So  she  stays  within 

reach 

For  one  beat  of  her  wings;  and,  ere  the  fond  soul  is  chilled 
For  a  moment  it  tastes  in  that  moment  the  slaking  of  drouth, 
Beating  back  on  itself  as  the  foam  of  a  wave  hung  in  air 
Sinks  back  on  the  urgent  slope  of  its  upheaved  breast — 
And  Beauty's  glimmering  foot  stays  still  for  one  moment 

in  rest. 


Ill 


[18]  ET   IN   ARCADIA   EGO 

WHEN  may  I  come  again  to  the  Western  moors, 

Dappled  with  cloud-shadows  and  chequered  with  fields 

That  grudging  the  wild  earth  yields? 

My  heart  is  sick  for  the  blown  pallor  of  mists, 

For  the  young-curled  bracken  and  budding  heather 

And  the  soft  grey  weather. 

Shall  I  hear  again  the  wail  of  the  peewits, 

Listen  once  more  while  the  pale-lipped  sea  of  the  West 

Sings  the  song  that  is  best? 

Wind-swept  land  whose  soul  is  known  to  your  children, 

Spacious  sky  where  clouds  from  the  ocean  pack, 

How  would  you  welcome  me  back? 


"  If  your  heart  be  sick,  I  will  teach  it  calm, 
My  soil  is  a  grave  for  the  sorrows  with  heavy  feet, 
My  mist  is  their  winding  sheet. 
Again  you  shall  see  the  blur  of  blue  in  the  hedge 
That  tells  of  the  first  dog-violets,  see  the  new  gold 
Of  catkins  on  hazels  old. 

But  never  again  with  a  careless  heart  shall  you  lie 
Where  young  love  once  gave  shining  veils  to  folly 
In  that  stream-threaded  valley. 

Dust  are  the  birds  whose  song  seemed  of  half-shy  kissing, 
The  leaves  that  embowered  you  away  on  the  winds  are  blown 
.  First  love  also  is  flown." 


[19]  WHERE  MY  DEAD  YOUTH 

LIES    DREAMING 


DOWN  in  the  west  my  dead  youth  lies  dreaming, 
There,  where  I  left  it  when  I  came  to  town. 
Dead  youth,  lie  still,  where  I'll  always  find  you 
There  in  the  west  where  the  soft  rains  come  down. 

Now,  when  I  go  there  and  walk  the  moors  again, 
Lay  cheek  against  the  granite  or  limbs  on  the  heather, 
My  dead  youth  is  more  living  than  the  deadening  present 
And  I  walk  with  it  again  in  the  grey  soft  weather. 


[20]       TO    THE    FORBIDDEN    LOVER 

THAT  time  I  gave  you  half-a-moon  of  days 
In  the  dear  Southern  land  of  many  moods, 
She  lured  us  up  among  her  hill-ringed  ways, 
Far  from  the  ordered  gardens,  far  from  where, 
Sacring  the  sky  the  Christs  hang  on  their  roods. 
We  saw  the  sea-grey  slopes  of  olive  trees 
Blown  foamy  pale;  from  the  cloud-ridden  air 
Fell  the  swift  shadows  on  those  leafy  seas. 

To  lakes  of  hardened  lava  we  would  come, 

Scarred,  as  by  whirlpools,  with  cold  crater-rings, 

Or  packed  in  furrows,  like  mammoth  slugs  grown  numb 

At  some  disaster  of  creation's  dawn — 

A  burnt-out  lunar  landscape  of  dead  things. 

And  then  a  kindlier  whim  of  path  would  show 

Rocks  that  might  echo  to  a  piping  faun, 

Or  hide  a  huntress-nymph  with  spear  and  bow. 


Pan-haunted  is  the  valley  where  we  lay 
(Lay,  till  lulled  senses  slid  into  a  dream) 
Watching  sun-wrought  reflections  of  ripples  play 
And  break  in  shining  scales  through  that  green  pool, 
Deepest  of  seven  strung  on  a  ribbon  of  stream 
Which  seven  times  wings  the  air  in  curving  flight. 
And  from  the  gleaming  arc  blew  spray  to  cool 
Lids  that  were  rosy  films  against  the  light. 

A  hut  with  fluted  roof  we  found  one  morn 

A  fairy-story  hut — an  empty  shrine 

Haply  once  dear  to  comrades  less  forlorn 

For  on  the  walls  were  names  of  lover-folk. 

And  there  we  ate  our  bread  and  drank  our  wine, 

A  Sacrament  of  Fellowship — only  dregs 

We  poured  to  envious  gods,  and  laughing  broke 

Thrush-like,  against  a  stone,  our  brown-shelled  eggs. 


Dearest  that  hill-town  set  in  sun  and  winds, 

Remote  as  though  upon  Olympus  hung, 

Yet  with  a  human  tang  that  drew  our  minds 

To  gentle,  restful  things — an  open  door, 

Warm  hearths,  silk-curtained  beds,  and  shutters  flung 

Wing-wide  to  let  us  watch  the  stars  pulsating. 

— Now  through  closed  slats  their  light  must  har  the  floor, 

And  on  the  hearth  the  ash  he  grey  with  waiting. 

And  when  for  daily  troubles  you  make  dole 

(Now  that  the  miles  have  set  you  far  away) 

Then  to  our  little  city  come  in  soul. 

There,  where  the  two  girl-children  thought  us  wed, 

There,  surely  I  need  never  say  you  nay  . . . 

.  .  .  But,  where  the  hollow  curves  between  the  breast 

And  rounded  shoulders,  draw  your  weary  head, 

And,  when  the  day's  lid  droops,  there  give  you  rest. 


The  weakness  of  you  I  can  hold  to  me, 
For  since  at  the  world's  door  the  babes  unborn 
Must  vainly  beat  for  us — oh,  I  will  be 
A  Virgin-Mother  to  the  child  in  you  .  .  . 
And  comradeship  is  good  when  sweetly  sworn, 
Being  no  less  tender  for  its  commonplace, 
And  for  its  lack  of  fetters  no  less  true. 
—Take  what  you  may,  my  dear,  and  with  good  grace. 

This  for  his  comfort,  but,  how  long,  how  long 

Till  utter  lack  of  feeling  I  attain, 

Until  the  calm  he  thinks  already  won 

Can  really  numb  me — heart  and  soul  and  brain? 


[21]  MY  SENSES  AND  I 

THE  smell  of  things  is  sweet  to  me; 
Of  the  tender-hued  thyme  amid  the  grass, 
Of  the  gorse-blossom  hot  in  the  sunshine 
And  of  earth  after  rain. 

The  sight  of  things  is  joy  to  me; 
Of  the  gull  planing  on  level  plumes, 
Of  the  rainbow  hung  for  a  flash  in  the  wave 
And  the  gold  of  grain. 

The  sound  of  things  is  dear  to  me; 
Of  the  whimpering  wires  at  the  telegraph  poles, 
Of  the  barking  fox  down  the  valley 
And  the  lark's  strain. 


But  best  is  the  feel  of  things  to  me; 
Of  the  chilly  wind  that  blows  on  my  eyelids, 
Of  wet  sand,  sunny  stones,  and  sleek  grasses, 
Yes,  even  of  pain. 

If  other  senses  all  die  to  me, 
The  world  draw  in  and  the  gates  all  close; 
Yet  will  my  faithful  flesh  tell  me  of  rapture, 
So  life  not  be  vain. 


[22]  LOVER'S    CRY 

I  HAVE  hated 

Every  moment  of  the  sun  by  day, 

Every  moment  of  the  moon  at  night; 

Eating  my  own  heart. 

For  since  you  never  write  me  words  to  ease  my  hunger 

My  love  unto  my  love  is  fain  to  be  phrasemonger. 

I  have  scorned 

Myself  for  my  own  pain  each  day, 

For  every  aching  nerve  at  night, 

Yet,  eager  waited 

Lest  my  too-anxious  thoughts  or  pulses'  drumming 

Should  drown  the  first  faint  noises  of  your  coming. 


I  have  despised 

You  more;  because  I  knew  each  day 

And  every  golden-houred  night 

You  would  but  want 

Easy  companioning  and  easier  passion, 

Naught  keener  to  disturb  and  trouble  your  soul's  fashion, 

And  I  have  known 

When  once  you  came,  that  in  the  day 

And  while  T  held  you  through  the  ni^ht, 

Again  I  should  forget  .  .  . 

Forget  just  in  the  nearness  of  you  all  my  sorrow, 

That  I  ached  with  it  yesterday,  and  will  to-morrow. 


IV 


[23]    THE   WEDDING   IN    THE   WOOD 

SING  hail,  hail,  hail  to  the  deep-bosomed  fleet-footed  bride, 
See  where  she  comes  through  the  trees  with  sun-dapples 

slipping  over  her  body 
In  ripples  of  broken  brightness,  so  that  she  seems  to  be 

moving 
Through  the  swaying  and  eddying  depths  of  a  current- 

whorled  river, 
Full  of  bright  edges  and  luminous  shadows  and  beaten-back 

refractions. 
Sing  hail  to  her  long  straight  legs  and  the  smooth  brown 

skin  that  moves  sleekly  this  way  and  that 
Over  the  knitted  muscles  as  closely  as  the  blown  air 
Fits  over  the  moving  waters,  one  with  each  hollow  and  ripple. 

She  is  wild  and  chill,  reluctant  as  dawn  in  winter; 
Under  each  rose-tipped  breast  a  crescent  of  dove-like  shadow 
Curves  feather-soft;  on  her  limbs  and  the  rounded  nape  of 

her  neck 

The  golden  down  catches  the  light,  and  blurs  edges  with  a 

delicate  mistiness. 


All  about  her  is  sane  and  sweet,  touched  with  the  adorable 

crudeness  of  youth,  and  stung 

With  a  wildness  that  makes  her  eye  sidelong,  her  foot  poised, 
Her  body  swung  forward,  and  her  upward  head 
Pricked  for  flight. 

So,  as  he  chases  her,  she  flies  before  him,  poising,  swaying, 
Now  erect,  now  for  whole  moments  slanting,  as  surely  as 

though  unseen  wings  gave  her  confidence, 
Lightly  as  though  she  could  lean  against  the  air  blowing  to 

her-wards, 

And  only  leap  on  as  it  parts  round  her  body. 
He  springs  from  surface  to  surface  and  feels  the  keen  joy 
Of  naked  feet  fitting  themselves  over  each  curve  of  boulder 

and  hummock, 
The  quick  muscles  responding  faithfully  to  the  swell  of  the 

ground, 

And  the  tall  body 

Poising  like  a  sleek  wave  for  the  onward  and  downward 

plunge. 


There,  where  the  wood  slopes  sharply  from  before  their 

urgent  ways, 
So  that  the  tree-tops  show  dense  and  green  like  a  deep  pool 

charmed  to  stillness 

He  comes  up  with  her,  and  plunges  into  its  darkness  beside  her. 
They  feel  the  sword-chill  glory  of  wind  on  a  sweat-damp  brow, 
Slide  down  the  steep  boulders  together,  bare  thigh  by  bare  thigh, 
And  below,  where  the  heaving  floor  of  the  wood  falls  away 

into  hollows, 
The  softness  of  golden  leaves  piled  high  and  crisp  for  their 

mating 

Gathers  them  into  its  hold. 
Each  leaf  with  its  curling  tongue  tickles  their  bodies  with 

dry  little  kisses; 
Kisses  that  go  unheeded. 


THE  SPARROW  AND  THE  MOTOR-BUS    [24] 

("  In  the  City  yesterday,  at  the  busiest  hour,  a  sparrow  was 
run  over  and  killed  by  a  motor-omnibus." — Daily  Paper,  1917.) 

THE  MOTOR-BUS: 

Hark  to  my  clutch  go  grinding,  grinding! 

I  am  big  and  bright  and  heavy,  with  an  overpowering  smell, 

(Listen  to  the  grinding  of  my  gears!) 

I'm  the  terror  of  the  street,  both  of  those  upon  their  feet 

(Oh,  the  grinding,  the  grinding  of  my  gears!) 

And  the  lighter  things  on  wheels  that  can  easy  show  their  heels, 

Yet  would  never  crawl  again  if  but  once  I  hit  'em  well. 

I'm  the  ruddy  conqueror,  I  am  jolly  near  immortal! 

(Oh,  my  horn!  the  blaring  of  my  horn!) 

I  can  make  financiers  scurry  like  the  snowflakes  in  a  flurry 

(Oh,  my  brakes,  the  grinding  of  my  brakes!) 

While  the  silly  women  scuttle  back  and  forth  like  a  shuttle . . . 

That  is  when  I  grunt  and  roar  till  my  very  engines  chortle! 

(Oh,  my  gears,  steady  with  my  gears!) 


And  when  I  think  of  what  I  could  do  if  I  chose  to  cast  off  all 

restriction, 

If  I  chose  to  go  mad  and  career  hither  and  thither  like  a  bull 
Scorning  rhyme  and  reason . . . 

Why,  in  a  few  moments  I  could  wreck  Fleet  Street! 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  my  radiator  bubbles  with  pride? 

THE  SPARROW: 
Cheep!     Cheep! 
Yer  cahn't  catch  me! 
Yer  cahn't  catch  me! 
I'll  peck  a  bit  o'  dirt 
From  under  yer  bonnet 
And  then  perch  upon  it ! 
(My,  it's  'ot! 
'Ot  as  'ell! 
And  what  a  smell!) 
Yer  couldn't  catch  a  flea 
And  much  less  me ! 
Cheep!    Che- 

THE  SENTIMENTAL  PASSER-BY: 
Ah,  by  what  heedlessness  of  callous  gods 
Did  the  gross  miracle  happen?    He  who  plods 
On  life's  way  sickened  by  the  useless  griefs 
(E'en  at  a  time  when  those  worth  many  sparrows 
Are  falling  like  scattered  seeds  into  the  furrows) 
May  surely  ask  of  Them  Who  are  our  Chiefs? 


So  vast  a  weapon  for  so  small  a  foe! 

Absurd  calamity!    And  yet ...  of  woe 

Who  is  the  measurer  and  what  the  scale? 

Lo!  in  an  instant  on  the  asphalt,  prone 

Lay  that  which  in  the  moment  earlier  had  flown! 

Was  there  no  worth  in  gaiety  so  frail? 

For  what  of  beating  heart  or  pulse  or  wing 

Can  there  be  left  of  such  a  tiny  thing? 

It  gave  amidst  the  din  its  airy  dance 

And  now's  but  reddened  feathers  on  the  ground, 

While,  on  the  tyre  a  dark  patch  round  and  round 

Whirls,  unchecked  for  the  guerdon  of  a  glance . . . 

THE  MOTOR-BUS: 

I  am  the  great,  the  all-powerful! 

I  killed  you!    I  killed  you! 

THE  SPARROW: 

I  am  the  great,  the  unconquered! 

I  once  lived!    I  once  lived! 


UNIVEESITT  OF  CALIFOENIA  LIBEAEY, 
BEEKELEY 


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Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


MM  W  »* 


«* 
MIG  17  1925 


20m-ll,'20 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


